


Picture Prompt - A Fluffy Castiel Drabble

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 03:54:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9417383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Fluffy drabble based on the item/object prompt: Picture





	

Creeping soundlessly into the library, Castiel’s serene ocean eyes alighted upon a small dingy dog-eared hardbound leather book nestled in the crook of the stuffed armchair and sparked with recognition. Forward momentum instantly halting, his coat and arms swung gently by his sides, settling in near unison. His cobalt gaze searched the corners of the room and beyond the doors for the owner, not finding you anywhere in sight. Pressing his eyelids closed, he concentrated on picking out the sounds, or rather lack thereof, disturbing the air of the bunker – determining he was alone in the expansive hideaway. You and the brothers must be on a short supply run. The thought passed through his mind that he should join you – after all, you, Sam, and Dean had seemed especially eager for his immediate aid in researching the latest case when you’d prayed, texted, and phoned, respectively, earlier that afternoon. Gleaming eyes now fixed on the tiny book, he dismissed the thought entirely.

He’d observed you reading this particular book often in the past months, noting quizzically how you urgently stashed it away in his presence, adamantly brushing it off as a trifle, a subtle pink flush painting your cheeks. The angel was not one to pry, attributing your actions as his simple misunderstanding of the more nuanced peculiarities of humans – you in particular being a most puzzling anomaly to him. But now, presented with the opportunity to satisfy a curiosity he did not know he possessed, he strode deliberately toward the chair.

Long fingers grasping the spine, he turned the cover over to examine the faded gold lettering etched into the leather, _Bright Star_. Opening to the first page, he read the subtitle, _Love Letters and Poems of John Keats to Fanny Brawne_. He squinted in bewilderment, pondering why you acted so nervously in regards to an unassuming book of letters and poetry. As he thumbed through the brittle yellow pages, a glossy piece of thick paper slipped from within, drifting to the floor. He bookmarked the page with his forefinger, stooping to retrieve the paper, coat puddling around his feet. Turning the smooth rectangular sheet over in his hand, he discovered his own solemn blue-eyed countenance staring back – it was a photo of himself, one he recalled you taking on your phone as a pretext for his image appearing on the screen when he called.

Brow furrowing in confusion, he stood upright, regard drifting to the pencil marked page, focusing on a boldly underlined sentence, _“…even if you did not love me, I could not help an entire devotion to you.”_ The crease in his forehead deepened as he riffled the pages further, finding more underlined passages of similar ilk, _“You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour…”_ The more he searched, the more uncertainty clouded his features, _“I never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was; I did not believe in it.”_ He abruptly snapped the book shut, slipping the picture back to its home between the pages, and sat with a heavy sigh in the chair, running his hand over his face. His fingers absentmindedly caressed the textured leather of the book, tense aspect gradually softening with understanding, a small hopeful smile touching his mouth and glinting in his bright blue eyes. He tucked the book securely inside his coat pocket and in the beat of his vessel’s heart, he was gone, appearing beside you at the nearby Gas ‘N Sip where you were standing in front of the cooler, scrutinizing an open carton of eggs for flaws while Sam and Dean argued over beer two aisles over.

“Cas!” You gasped, spying the angel in your periphery, palm flinching involuntarily to your chest in surprise. The breath hitched in your throat when you met the angel’s shining eyes - something was different – he’d never looked at you like this, with, you daren’t let yourself hope, with a kind of longing. Your stomach somersaulted.

“Hello Y/N,” his hand moved to rest on your shoulder, squeezing you reassuringly, calmly, “we need to talk.” Your mouth gaped in a failed attempt to form words as you turned to alert the brothers to the angel’s arrival. Cas followed your gaze as you looked toward Sam and Dean, tone raspy, “Alone.”

The open carton of eggs dropped to the tiled floor with a splat.

You reached out, white-knuckled, clutching the angel by the coat lapels to steady yourself. Flying was dizzying when you expected it - when you didn’t, and your stomach was already doing flips, well, it was even more disconcerting.

Cas grasped your elbows, supporting your swaying body, peering apologetically into your face as you regained your bearings. You were in the bunker library. You watched Cas fish something out of his coat, your heart quickening when he produced your well-worn copy of Keats’ love letters. He held it timidly between your bodies, “I found this in the chair, with a picture of me inside.”

Your eyes darted to the chair where you’d earlier been daydreaming over the picture, wallowing in your unrequited love. Hastily tossing the book into your bag after Dean announced a last minute beer run, it must have slipped out unnoticed. You refocused on the angel.

“Y/N, what does it mean?” Cas cocked his head endearingly, eyes wide, questioning.

You tried hard to swallow the lump forming in your throat, your tongue going dry.

The angel narrowed his eyes, vision shifting to the book, now open in his hands, dark lashes flitting over the words as he read aloud a passage highlighted by you, “I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days…”

Your voice rose above his, clasping your palms together over his rough hands to close the book, a confidence overtaking your shy demeanor through the poet’s words, “Three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.”

Lust darkening cobalt eyes sought yours once again, finding their answer.


End file.
